


My Boyfriend, the Antichrist

by inanhourofdreaming



Category: Damien (TV), The Fall (TV 2013)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 16:30:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17124809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inanhourofdreaming/pseuds/inanhourofdreaming
Summary: Tom discovered he was dating the antichrist on a Wednesday, after an unexpected late afternoon shag that had left him in enough of a pliant mood that he didn’t immediately jump out of bed.





	My Boyfriend, the Antichrist

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I have NO explanation for this. I've taken liberties with DS Tom Anderson who, let's face it, really didn't have a personality in the Fall. Enjoy!

Tom discovered he was dating the antichrist on a Wednesday, after an unexpected late afternoon shag that had left him in enough of a pliant mood that he didn’t immediately jump out of bed.

“The antichrist,” he said.

“Yes,” said Damien.

“Destroyer of worlds?” Tom said, trying to wake up and take this truly bizarre conversation seriously. Damien was a phenomenal shag, the best Tom had ever had, and an absolute delight to look at, but a man who thought he was the antichrist was a bit much, truly.

“Ah, yes. Well, I mean, I hope not actually but...yes.” Damien said.

This could be a problem. Tom weighed the likelihood that introducing Damien to his friends might ultimately get him thrown out of his favorite bars or at the very least sent to some mandated therapy. Still, he thought, looking Damien up and down where he was still sprawled naked in his bed. Probably worth the risk. He was not lying about the shagging.

“Ehm,” he paused. “Right. So that. What does that entail, antichrist...ing? Are there demon parties? Does your dad take you out for a bit of torturing on the holidays?” 

“No?” Damien said. “I mean, I don’t know if he would, I haven’t actually met him. It’s mostly been rich corporate assholes and the occasional murderous Italian nun. A few people have stabbed themselves, but I think I’ve mostly got that bit under control now.”

“Well,” Tom said. “I suppose there’s one thing that makes sense about this.”

“What?” Damien said warily. 

“I always figured the antichrist would be American.”

Damien smacked him with a pillow, but he kissed him after, relieved, he supposed, so that was alright.

 

“Well,” Tom rubbed his head, wiping away the blood that was threatening to spill into his eye. “You weren’t kidding about the killer nuns.” 

The man, the one decked out in a hoodie who’d swung at them with a knife straight out of a museum, had gotten rather the worst of the fight. Bits of him were sprayed around the pavement. 

“They keep coming,” Damien says, exasperated. “I don’t even kill people accidentally anymore!” 

“You’ve killed him,” Tom said. He’s honestly not upset about it. This ass had been a grade A dick, what with the knife and the screaming in Latin, and Tom preferred his blood in his head, as all cops and right thinking people must.

“Well, yes, but that wasn’t an accident.” Damien said. “Also, he was trying to kill me, so I think I’ve really got the moral high ground in this situation.”

Sirens wail in the distance. 

“Right. Even so, let me talk us through this one, yeah? I’m the sergeant here,” Tom said, thinking longingly of the curry they’d been on their way to pick up. 

 

“An ambassador’s son?” He yelled later. “You went to _Oxford_?!”

“Technically, I was _expelled_ from Oxford.” 

“Damien, that was the chief of police. My boss...I don’t even know how many levels up, come to just let us go without even an inquiry! He practically thanked us for leaving that mess on the pavement.”

“Yes, well. I did sort of tell you about that. The corporate assholes? They know everyone.”

“How rich _are_ you?” Tom said in horror. 

“I’m not actually sure. It’s Armitage Global, which I suppose is mine.” Damien said, blase like only a really really rich person could be.

“Armitage Global? Damien, they’re worth what, 50 billion dollars?”

“More now, probably. We always seem to make money during civil unrest and well,” he gestured around as if to say ‘look at the world.’ “Are you really more upset about this than the antichrist thing?”

“This was far less likely,” Tom said. “Although really, hot gay billionaire come to steal my soul actually does rather sound like what the Church has been warning about for the last thousand years. Who knew they’d be right?”

What he was really thinking was that if he’d known Damien was this wealthy, he wouldn’t have worried so much about the ‘thinking he was the antichrist’ thing. Everyone knew you were allowed to be weird if you were that rich. 

 

Getting in the middle of a shootout was absolutely not on Tom’s list of things to do today but here he was.

A bullet pinged a few inches from his head, right into the car door he was crouching behind.

“Fuck!” He yelled, pulling back from where he’d been about to take a shot.

His phone rang.

He answered without looking.

“Are you being shot at right now??” Damien yelled.

“What?” Tom said. “Oh, yes. Damien, now is not the time!” 

“I’m coming, stay where you are.” Damien said calmly. Even past the gunfire and the adrenaline he’d sounded cold in a way Tom wasn’t really prepared for, so it took him an extra minute to process what he’d heard.

“Wait, what? Damien, no!” He yelled belatedly, but the phone was disconnected. “Fuck!’

They were at a stalemate when the sounds started.

“Is that...is that dogs?” Wilson said from where she was crouched halfway into the passenger seat.

It was dogs. Fucking dogs growling and howling over the sound of chaos. The hair on Tom’s arms raised. Where the fuck were the dogs?

Clouds darkened the sky where just minutes ago it had been the usual halfway overcast Belfast sky. It looked as if night had pushed over them like a blanket thrown. The ground rumbled.

“Who the hell is _that_?” Wilson said, peaking over the dash. 

“Oh god,” Tom said. “Oh my god.”

Damien was standing by the car where the shooters were armed with far too many guns and at least a few explosives.

Tom couldn’t hear what he was saying but he was talking to them and his face was stone cold like Tom had never seen it and the men had gone from screaming anger to terror. Damien held his hand out in front of him and Tom didn’t register for a minute what he was seeing, too sure that Damien was going to get shot right in front of him and he was going to have to explain that not only did he have a boyfriend, his boyfriend was now DEAD because he thought he was the antichrist. Only that wasn’t happening, and Tom looked on dazed as the shooters dropped all at once, blood streaming from their eyes as thunder crashed loudly above them, startling him and making Wilson yelp with shock. Damien cast a dismissive glance down at the bodies before turning for Tom.

Tom jumped up to meet him. Was this shock? Was he in shock?

“You’re ok?” Damien said, eyes scanning him but not reaching out to touch. 

“Yes,” Tom said. Damien looked down at his elbow, then his knees, both of which were bleeding. Tom followed his gaze.  “Ah. Just scratches, from diving down.”

“Right.”

“So,” Tom said. “You’re...really the antichrist then.”

“Yes,” Damien said. He still didn’t reach out. The coldness of his face breaking out into what might have been wariness.

“Right.” Tom said. “Right. Well.” His hands kept clenching and unclenching seemingly by themselves.

Damien stayed still.

“I suppose,” Tom said after a moment, “I was never a terribly good Catholic anyway.”

Damien’s lip quirked up. “No,” he said. “Awful one, really. All the premarital sex.”

Tom shrugged. “Guilty.”

“So it’s,” Damien said. “It’s all right with you? Really?”

Tom smiled. He let his glance drift to where Damien had just murdered a bunch of men trying to kill him, and then back to Damien. “Guarantee me a nice room in hell?”

“The best room.” Damien said, finally smiling fiercely back. “Mine.”

Tom figured that’d do just fine.


End file.
